Zephyr
by Masterchf
Summary: An undead apocalypse has overtaken the Earth. Although small bands of humans still live, most of humanity has fallen, and risen into the ranks of the undead. Story begins midway through the outbreak, and is primarily based in North America and the Pacific
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

In retrospect, the causes that precipitated the event are quite inconsequential. Undoubtedly, it seems rather cynical to call the origins of something that led to the deaths of over six and a half billion people and the destruction of organized society "inconsequential", but in reality, the cause of the event has become nothing more than an afterthought.

Some say that it began as a mutation of the particular strain of the human immunodeficiency virus that ravaged sub-Saharan Africa during the latter decades of the twentieth century. From a purely biological standpoint, this scenario would seem to be quite feasible. The symptoms are similar, no doubt. Both feature a debilitating condition caused by a virus contracted through the transmission of bodily fluids. But it seems unlikely that a virus that originated in the center of Africa would have the ability to spread throughout the world in such a manner. The lack of a hospitable environment for the virus, coupled with a lack of major transit systems for which to move the virus present a problem that seems too hard for any virus, even one of its magnitude, to overcome.

A second possible explanation for the spread of the virus finds its origins with No-dong, a North Korean nuclear launch facility that borders the Sea of Japan on the country's eastern coast. In 2010, the facility was the site of the explosion of a nuclear reactor, releasing an amount of radioactivity into the area surrounding the facility rivaling that of the Chernobyl, Soviet Union disaster of the mid-eighties. The North Korean government enacted a massive coverup in an attempt to shield the rest of the world from its folley. Unconfirmed reports from the area stated that the lethal amount of nuclear fallout and radiation inevitably led to the reanimation of dead cells in those killed in the surrounding areas, leading to an outbreak. The virus was said to have spread quickly due to the high population to land distribution of the Asian countries. But in retrospect, this also seems unlikely, as the virus' primary mode of transmission would not seem consistent with that of a radiological based virus.

The third and most plausible explanation for the virus begins with Zephyr Pharmaceutical Industries, a drug company firmly rooted in the United States military and government. Due to its connections with the US Secretary of Defense, ZPI acquired a contract in the early nineties to become, in addition to a public pharmaceutical company, a private, government-backed supplier of medicines to the United States armed forces. The corporation, with government funding, completed research on an experimental stimulant drug in late 2003, just after the United States' invasion of the former nation of Iraq. Never intended to be marketed to the general public, the drug was designed to rapidly replicate and attach itself to the red blood cells of the user. The stimulant was intended to heighten the awareness of special operations soldiers in counter-terrorism units, and for all intents and purposes it performed marvelously. The drug's effects were incredibly dependent on the blood chemistry of the user, which originally proved to be a non-factor in the majority of armed forces soldiers. But, reports made in mid-2010 from the Fallujah district of Iraq stated that the drug induced an effect known colloquially as the "Zephyr". The question of if the drug was the true cause of the event was never answered, but the name provided by the company gave a scapegoat for the world governments during the earliest moments of the battle.

The lack of verifiable evidence will most likely prevent the remnants of human society from ever discovering the true cause of the outbreak. By the time the world's governments had discovered what a danger the outbreak posed, it was too late. But what is known is the horror it wrought in its path of destruction. Wherever its origins, by June 28th, 2010, it had almost completely overtaken Eastern and Southeastern Asia, the Middle East, and North and Central Africa. The virus' carriers transmitted it like wildfire, and by the next week, The Kremlin was evacuated. In another week, it had completely overtaken Indonesia and Australia, as well as Southern Africa and the remains of Europe. In a futile attempt at salvation, a multi-national military force was deployed along the European border to Russia. Code-named Operation Hammer, the remaining militaries of Russia, Australia, and Egypt, along with European and United Nations forces were sent to regain territory in Russia. But the operation ended in failure, as the tactics used by soldiers proved ineffective against the mindless hordes. By July 22nd, it had completely ravaged all of the Eastern Hemisphere save for small pockets of resistance in Germany, France, and Great Britain. The entire eastern hemisphere had been overtaken, the deaths of billions of people left in the wake of the outbreak. The United States government, who adopted a strict anti-immigration policy in the early days of the outbreak, attempted firebombing of highly effect areas in Madrid, Spain, and Dresden, Germany, albeit with little success. Illegal immigration into Canada from Europe led to the virus' arrival in the western hemisphere. From there, it took until the second week of August for the virus to completely eradicate life in both North and South America.

In just a month and a half, Zephyr had accomplished what no previous virus, war, natural disaster had accomplished, and had done so with astounding swiftness. All that remained of principle cities such as Washington, Berlin, Cairo, and Tokyo was the death and destruction caused by the outbreak and the attempts of the country to defeat it. In another month, Oahu, Hawaii whose coastlines were protected by the remnants of the United States Navy and Marines, was the last bastion of humanity. From there, the United States government, led by the former Secretary of Education, maintained sparse communications with the other governments in exile of the world. Although scattered remnants of society existed in a few secluded parts of the glove, civilization had been quickly and summarily destroyed.


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

"Griffin, Eddins, pull back to Reserve Position One! Fire Team, cover the retreat! Stay sharp, stay moving, stay alive!" In the week since the plague had come to the states , Major John "Key" Locke must have uttered these commands over one hundred times in his group's transit across the nation.

Amidst dozens of other soldiers retreating to the line of vehicles at the edge of the interstate, Locke pulled the lightweight rifle he carried around his waist to his shoulder, and peered through the sights at the mob steadily approaching. Squinting his eyes and looking through his ACOG, his weapon's telescopic gunsight, he fired three rounds from his M4A1 into the head of the closest Zeke, the blood from the exit wound painting dots on the two Zekes behind it.

"Keep moving. Hold at the convoy until everyone is safe." yelled Locke over the microphone system that protruded out from under his helmet. He took a step back as four Zekes to his immediate right were hit by a volley from one of the M240s held by the Fire Team directly behind him.

Locke let down his rifle, took another step back, and felt the hard grip of asphalt beneath him. He raised his rifle once more, emptied another four shots into the mob of Zekes, and, checking to make sure he hadn't left any soldiers behind, pulled himself into the cab of the nearest Humvee. The deafening roar of .50 caliber machine guns filled the air, and as Locke peered out the front window of his vehicle, he could see body upon body of Zekes crumple as the sheer volume of fire took its toll.

Listening through his earpiece, he could hear the reassuring voice of Captain Charlie Harvill, his second-in-command, ending the check.

"Humvee 17, all troops accounted for. M35 four, all troops and civilians accounted for. Major Locke, all soldiers and civilians are accounted for. No reported casualties among either our men or the civies. Orders, sir?"

Locke reached for his radio and eased the button down with his index and middle fingers. "Affirmative, Captain. Convoy, prepare to move out. Standard formation. Humvee 1, you have a go." Locke released the microphone button as he felt his Humvee come to life and proceed back onto the road.

As his Humvee took its place as second in the convoy, Locke felt he could finally let his guard down. He re-fastened his pistol holder, which had fallen askew when he jerked his pistol out to kill a Zeke that had pinned a young Private to the ground, and slowly took his earpiece off, making sure not to stretch the cable attached to his radio, and placed the headset into a pocket on his jacket. He attempted to close his eyes and lean back in the seat, knowing well that the roar of the engine and the pattern-less trickle of machine gun fire would prevent him from sleeping. Realizing the futility in the attempt, Locke readjusted his seat and looked out through the window of the vehicle at the noon sun that lofted high over the head of the convoy, and reflected on what he had experienced in the past week.

His original force of 283 Special Forces soldiers, the remnants of the group that was able to survive the massacre at the MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, had been slowly dwindled to 54. In a week, two hundred and twenty-nine soldiers had been killed, only to rise once again in an attempt to kill those who had until then been their comrades.

"Special Operations....Best of the Best." Locke slowly chuckled to himself.

Although he would entrust his life to any man in his unit, he realized that even a force such as the one under his command wouldn't be able to hold its own for long against these beasts. No training could prepare one to shoot at an eight year old girl as she ripped the flesh off of a grown man's throat. No training could prepare one to look down the sights of a gun, to pull the trigger on an elderly woman. No training could prepare one to shoot his own loved ones. A droplet of sweat dripped off his forehead, and Locke shuddered, but quickly collected himself. He had come to understand that battle was as much about morale of the troops as it was about their ability. No matter what experiences he held, no matter how terrifying, he knew he must continue to appear strong and decisive.

As his Humvee pulled over a shallow ridge, Locke reached into the pack secured to his thigh, and removed a neatly folded map. He unfolded it in his lap, and peered down. He traced to his position, and began to silently speak to himself.

"We have just passed Yuma, Arizona. No survivors found. Zekes numbered in the thousands."

He scrawled down the figures onto the parchment, and looked at the discernible route made by his markings. A multitude of dots and scribbles marked the larger cities that his group had encountered during the trip. Locke looked over the map, looked at his scribbles.

"No survivors found. Zekes numbered in the thousands."

He realized he had written the same two lines a dozen times. Gainesville, Mobile, Shreveport, Dallas, Las Cruces, Tuscon. Each held the same terrible fate. It wasn't the monotonous rhythm that angered Locke. Being a soldier, he was accustomed to such a repetitive lifestyle. But even after seeing the events first hand, he felt mystified that such a force could devastate the world like the Zephyr. His convoy had encountered just over eighty survivors along the trip, whom they carried in the large M35's, colloquially referred to as Deuce and a halfs, that accompanied the convoy. But in the route that they had taken, out of the millions of people, eighty was an infinitesimally small number. As he continued to scan the map, machine gun fire broke the calm. The sounds of bullets firing and shell cases hitting the roof erupted from the top of the Humvee. Private Robert Parks, who manned Humvee 2's .50 caliber machine gun, was always eager to "Scrap some Zeds", as he put it. Locke could even hear him yelling, his unmistakable Georgian accent echoing through the cab of the Humvee. Locke scrambled to put his map back in the pack as he felt the Humvee begin to slow.

"Major, look up ahead" stated Corporal Richard Paris, the Humvee's driver, as he motioned to the large mob that stood before them.

Locke could see a large group of Zekes huddled a mile away in the middle of the interstate, amidst a sea of charred and deserted automobiles.

Comm chatter from one vehicle to another seemed to herald the mob's appearance, and almost as if by instinct, Locke found himself removing the half-filled ammo cartridge from his weapon, and replacing it with a filled cartridge taken from his ammunition belt, replacing the half-empty cartridge in his belt. Ammunition was at a premium, and they were at a time when a single bullet could mean the difference between life and death. Securing the cartridge, he looked behind him, where Corporal Mark Griffin, and Sergeant Stephen Eddins, sitting in the rear section of the Humvee, were both reloading their own rifles.

"You know the drill, boys. Eddins, Griffin, suit up. Paris, bring us in nice and easy."

Through the radio that rested on his shoulder, Locke could hear the clicks and pops of other soldiers reloading their own weapons. Locke nodded to Griffin, Eddins, and Paris, and received the same apprehensive nod back from each. As he reached up to his shoulder to press the transmit button on his radio, Paris pulled to a full stop just behind the lead Humvee.

"Alright men, we're only a few hours from safety. This is just a small group, but there could be survivors in those vehicles." Locke knew full well that there was no chance that anyone could have survived out here for this long, but he also knew that he could not afford to let go of hope this close to salvation. "Take it slow. Fire Teams Alpha and Beta, move in on the left side. Gamma and Delta, move in on the right. All other teams move up through the center. Stay sharp, stay moving, stay alive."

Locke reached down the neck of his shirt, brushed his dog tags aside, and grasped the crucifix he wore around his neck. Releasing the lock on the door, he stepped out, both feet hitting the solid ground at the same instant. He slammed his door shut as the sound of metal hitting metal reverberated down the line of vehicles- other soldiers doing the same. He looked up at the sky, nodded, and lowered his head. Raising his rifle to his shoulder, he took a step forward, and proceeded to lead his soldiers, his comrades, his friends, into Hell.


	3. Chapter 2

Sweat dripped from Locke's brow as he spearheaded the angled line of soldiers slowly makings its way towards the mob. Step by step, pace by pace, the line came closer and closer to impacting the shambling group. Locke released the tight grip of his left hand on the stock of his rifle, and after pulling back his right hand to compensate for the uneven distribution of weight, he motioned for the two squads to his left to take cover behind a burned suburban a few hundred yards away from the mob. Silently and swiftly, the two squads diverted and set up behind the vehicles, aiming rifles from behind ripped seats and through holes ripped out of the charred metal. Keeping low to the ground, Locke and another dozen men crept closer until they reached a shallow valley just eighty yards away from the mob. Another motion from Locke's hand, and the soldiers dipped to the ground and set up at the head of the valley. Locke pulled the microphone closer to his mouth, and began to speak in almost a whisper.

"Captain Harvill, this is Locke. My teams are in position. Are we clear to move?"

Locke released his radio as he heard the quiet crackle of static that accompanied Harvill's transmission.

"Major, my men are in position. We're ready on your go."

Locke squinted and looked through the crowd just ahead of him. Through a broken car window, he could barely make out two soldiers in standard issue Army drab that vividly painted the desert landscape setting up one of the unit's M240Bs. Locke marveled at his unit's movements. In just a week of hard fighting, his unit had become a finely tuned group of Zeke assassins, able to move swiftly and silently towards the enemy. He looked around him, the eyes of his soldiers staring intently on the mob. He pulled his microphone toward his mouth once more.

"Okay, Captain Harvill, you have a go." And with that, the die was cast. Locke secured his weapon in his hand, and then sprayed an entire clip from his rifle into the mob. He quickly rolled over onto his back, dropping further into the cover of the trench, reloading the gun as fire from the teams a few hundred yards to their rear erupted and illuminated the evening sky.

The first two thousand or so shots tore into the ranks of the Zekes, ripping already tattered clothes, dismembering bodies, and forcing all but a dozen or so Zekes' final submission. Locke's unit's maneuver had worked well; fire coming in from all directions and at multiple angles had prevented both the enemy's ability to move as well as to hide. Seeing Captain Harvill's teams beginning to move closer to the group, Locke pushed himself up out of the trench, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and reached for the Jericho 941 contained in his hip holster, unclicking the lock as he took the gun out. Although it lacked the firepower of his M4A1, Locke had learned that in situations such as this one, especially when the sun was almost down, firepower wasn't as much of a necessity as speed or ease of use. To his side, a dozen or so others, including Griffin, Eddins, and Park, did the same, swapping their rifles for each's sidearm of choice. Another hand signal from Locke, and the group moved up, into the wreckage. Shots began to ring out as soldiers encountered still-living Zekes. With Parks on his left and Griffin on his right, Locke moved between two vans, shining the flashlight he held in the hand supporting his weapon into the furthest one to the left.

"Parks, take a look in there. Griffin, give him some cover" said Locke as he stepped closer to the wreckage."

Parks attempted to open the car's rear door, but the set lock prevented it. Parks looked back at Locke, who nodded back to him, and raised the flashlight to illuminate most of the van's interior. Parks shielded his face, and with his free arm, shattered the glass of the rear window, quickly reaching in and unlocking the door. Parks grasped his hand around the door's handle once again, and opened the door, and instantaneously, a dark figure erupted from the cabin, pouncing on a screaming Parks, pushing him into the darkness behind Griffin and Locke.

"Kill it, quickly! Help, help!" yelled Parks, his fear and surprise preventing him from using the pistol he carried in his hand. Locke pulled his flashlight around, and finally found the struggle between the two. Parks was on the ground, using his arms and legs to prevent the beast from getting his mouth close to Parks' body. Griffin rushed to Parks, and ripped the Zeke off of him, throwing it to the ground. As if by instinct, Locke and Griffin both put two rounds in the head of the Zeke, who continued its violent spasms for almost a full minute.

"Parks, did it bite you?" questioned Griffin.

Parks felt of his neck and arms for bites, and only after he had checked over every inch of exposed flesh did he finally say "No, I'm fine."

Locke took a step toward the Zeke, and looked at it. The body was male, and couldn't have been more than 20 years old when it died. Judging by the vehicle, he could have been a student, traveling home from college. Locke scanned over the body, its tattered clothes bloodied multiple times over. He solemnly nodded, and then began to walk away. Parks and Griffin began to follow, but Locke signaled them away, quickening his pace as he began to walk closer to the center of the wreckage. Locke would shoot twitching Zekes intermittently, but as he reached the large pile of bodies that had been slaughtered by the units automatic weapons, he noticed a flickering light below a car. Raising his pistol, he walked toward it. The car was an old Cadillac, but the damage to it prevented him from determining what model it was. Realizing that it was simply a small fire, Locke turned and walked away. But he turned once again toward the car when he heard an unmistakable pop and thud, and was able to face car just as the fireball erupted from it. As he fell to the ground, he could hear the screams of his comrades.

"Explosion, someone's hurt! Get a medical team over here!"

"Oh, God, it's the Major! Somebody give me a jacket, we've got to stop the bleeding!"

And then, darkness.


	4. Chapter 3

Locke awoke in a large, white sheeted bed. Comfortable, extremely comfortable for a hospital bed. In the seconds after the explosion, Locke thought that he would be killed. Here he was, safe and sound in a medical bed. He smelled the air: tropical. Perhaps they had reached Hawai'i? No, this smell was that of Florida. Had they been forced to turn back? Had the government fallen, had Florida been declared the only safe-zone?

But Locke realized that this was no hospital bed, and his surroundings weren't that of a medical institution. This place was familiar. No, more than just familiar. This place was the place of most of his good memories. This was his home. But this couldn't be correct. Just seconds ago, Locke was half a continent away. Even if the government had fallen, there would be no reason that they had returned to his Florida, and especially his home. Questions began to fill his head. And then, he remembered the explosion. Could it have killed him? Could this be the afterlife? Locke quickly ran his hands over his face, but felt no shrapnel or open wounds. He did the same to the rest of his body, reaching under his shirt, feeling down to the end of his arms and legs, and again, he realized that his body was perfectly fine. He had no trouble breathing, no soreness, no pain. How long could he have been in this bed? How long had it been since the explosion?

"Where am I?" thought Locke, as he gripped the side of the bed and raised himself into a sitting position.

He looked next to him, where ruffled sheets indicated that someone had recently slept next to him. He began to hear intermittent mumbling coming from down the hallway.

"But, this isn't possible" said Locke, and after he stood off the bed and began to walk toward the door, he reached into the top of his dresser, above the highest drawer, and removed the 9mm Beretta that sat in a pile of dust. After removing the ammo cartridge that sat next to the gun from its original position, he loaded the weapon and cocked it, and while aiming into the hall, pulled the cracked door open with his foot.

This was undoubtedly Locke's house. Pictures of his family dotted the hallways. His parents, and their grandparents. His brother's family. And then, above the door that led into his family room, he saw it. The picture of his wife, his children. He with that goofy grin on his face from a lifetime of innocence. It was the last family photograph, taken just a month and a half before the outbreak. Locke shuddered, and then turned to his left and began to quietly step down the stairs. Halfway down, he realized that the mumbling was that of characters on the television in the kitchen.

"Seinfeld?" thought Locke, still moving slowly and quietly down the stairs.

No, the voices he recognized weren't of Seinfeld. He distinctly heard the voices of both Steve Carell and Rainn Wilson, and immediately realized that the television was tuned into "The Office". But as he reached the bottom step of the stairs, he realized more voices were emanating from the kitchen. The voices were more familiar. The voice of someone who was supposed to be there, who was always supposed to be there. The voices were intelligent, not voices like the voice-like moans that zombies sometimes made. No, these were definitely voices of living, breathing humans. Locke laid the gun down on the table next to him, and keeping it in safe reach if it was needed, stepped forward into the doorway of the kitchen. And then he saw, her. Beautiful, blonde hair and blue eyes. Petite. It was Sara. His wife. He ran and embraced her, surprising her to where she accidentally dropped the knife that she was using to chop onions.

"John, you're usually not this chipper in the morning! What's the occasion?" said Sara, as if life was as usual.

"Sara, Sara, Sara" cried John, tears streaming down his face as he held her tighter. And in the distance through the dining room windows, his eyes once again unleashed a new flood of tears, as he saw his two children playing with the family dog, a large golden retriever named Aristotle.

"John, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"Sara, what day is it?"

"The what? What day is it? It's Thursday."

"No, no, my love. The date, what is the date" John uttered, fearful of the answer and still refusing to release Sara from the embrace.

"Oh, it's May the twenty-ninth" answered Sara.

"May the twenty-ninth, of what year" asked John.

"John, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Yes, love, but I must know the year" asked John once again, nervous and sweating, but still refusing to release Sara.

"Why, it's 2010, and if you're needing to know the year, maybe you did get in too late last night" joked Sara. "And look at you! These onions are making you sob!"

John released Sara from the embrace, and turned to walk away, before turning back once more and giving her a long kiss. As he stepped back and turned toward the doorway back into the living room, Sara smiled widely and returned to chopping onions.

John removed the gun from the table, quickly ran upstairs, and after unloading it, returned it to its place on top of the dresser. Sitting back down on the bed, he opened his bedside table's top drawer and found his pocket calendar, fumbling with the pages as he attempted to get to May. May the twenty-eighth was the last day crossed off. It must have been, as Sara had said, May the twenty-ninth.

"But that cannot be" John muttered. Those weeks couldn't have been a dream, there is no way. And this, couldn't have been a dream. Well, at least he didn't think that it could've been a dream. It felt just as real as anything else did. Was he dead?

John again looked at his pocket calendar, and began to flip through the pages. Inconsequential events filled the calendar, and John skipped over all until he reached June fourteenth. In large red lettering, he recognized his own handwriting, in which he had scrawled "ZPI worldwide distribution conference. Sara speaking. Formal attire. 7pm, ZPI main offices, DC"

John remembered attending the conference. Sara was one of the head scientists on the new military stimulant which was being unveiled for worldwide commercial distribution, and she spoke for a solid hour on facts that went over his head, and the heads of probably ninety-five percent of the other people in the conference. And then, the next day, the packages were shipped. A week later, reports began coming in that China was experiencing an epidemic while caused uncontrollable rage among subjects that had taken the stimulant. The testing had passed with flying colors in the United States. John remembered that just before the United States had fallen and the government had fled, scientists began to theorize that the drug had mutated during its shipments, and the trials hadn't been able to discover possible mutations. Before anything could be done, it was too late. John continued to stare at the date, and then dropped the book, immediately ran out the bedroom door, down the stairs, and out the front door.


End file.
